by T. Mike McCurley
“State of the art lethality, contained within a stylish and attractive package!” Raved the advertisement, glaring words of electric blue surrounding a photograph of the newest in a long line of personal defense weapons by Armscorp Omega. “Isn't it time you advanced to the next level?”
Stan Citral muttered an oath under his breath at the idea of weapons packaged for style rather than efficacy. He crumpled the ad in his fist and threw it without looking at the trash can that waited in the corner of his filthy apartment. Never even glancing to see if it went into the receptacle or if it joined the growing pile of papers that surrounded the nearly oveflowing can, he turned on his heel and walked away, rubbing at his stubbled chin to ease the tension in his clenched jaws. His teeth ached from the pressure.
Stan could feel his pulse pounding at his temple and he fought to remain calm. Tonight would be the night. It was time to teach them what it meant to cross him. He rubbed at his red-rimmed eyes and picked up the bottle of Jack Daniels from its position on the end table beside his battered couch. Pacing angrily about the living room, he lifted the bottle to his lips and sucked greedily at the amber liquid it contained. He tried desperately to ignore the burning pain as the liquor ravaged his throat and instead concentrated on the warm glow it left in his belly a moment later.
“Nineteen damned years,” he growled as he took another deep swallow. “I make the best weapons you people could ever want and you fire me? Well, tonight's your night.”
The termination notice in his pocket was a burning reminder of their betrayal and he ripped it out to stare at the hated letters it bore. It spoke of 'new directions' for the company that was previously known for manufacturing the most destructive weaponry ever seen. They would now be focusing on the personal defense market. In this time of rampant violence, be it committed by genebooster or normal, the public was clamoring for the presence of more weapons, and Armscorp Omega was all too willing to fill that desire. To that end, they had begun mass production of handguns and concealable arms in a variety of the most popular colors and new, streamlined shapes that were pleasing to the eye. Stan Citral, in his role as one of their most ingenious designers, had stood firm against the new policies, reminding the Board of Directors that their purpose was to create effective new tools, not to supply the public with lethal toys. For his efforts, and for the stubborn way in which he refused to adapt to a changing time, they fired him.
Tonight, though, they would all pay. Tonight, Armscorp Omega would see 'state of the art lethality' on a scale they had never imagined.
***
You know, they never tell you anything about being a hero. Oh, sure, you can watch all the PSA's with the stand-up types like Patriot and Uncle Sam, but all they tell you is to do your duty as a citizen. Whoopee-di-do. Like that's real helpful. What do they want you to do? Vote?
You want to know what they should tell you? How about this one: Spandex is cold. Well, I guess technically Spandex itself isn't cold, but try cruising around Chicago at night in the winter dressed in it. You'll know what I mean then.
They need one of those 'Dummies' books for people considering this line of work. Something like 'Heroing for Dummies', or 'The Idiot's Guide to Costumed Crimefighting Adventures', where they can tell you things like that. That way, you don't have to figure it out about three in the morning when the temp's running about five million below with a gale-force wind blowing snow up your ass. I swear, I need to team up with one of the fire guys like Heatwave or someone like that. At least then I could feel my hands. I'd be like, “Yo, Heatwave, it's cold out tonight,” and he'd grin and say something stupid that he thinks is funny and then start to glow like a big old space heater. But no, I gotta decide to try it on my own.
So here I was, walking around in about a hundred feet of snow, leaving little cold footprints behind me on the roofs as I go from building to building looking for someone or something to fight. Maybe that would warm me up a little. I had already quit blowing on my hands to warm them. One more tip for the books: Thin little Spandex gloves not only don't keep your hands warm, they get wet when you blow on them. Surprise! Now your hands are going to be even colder! Why the hell I'm wearing this stupid costume is an even bigger mystery than why I took this gig.
Yeah, fine, I know why I did it. I'd like to tell you it was for some noble reason, some altruistic bent in my psyche, but the truth is, I did it for money. No, not for a bounty or anything like that, there are plenty of boosters doing that. One word: Endorsements. I figure one day I'll be wearing a pair of wizard new Nikes over these Spandex boots, maybe a nice warm Eddie Bauer jacket, something like that. Yeah, baby, that's it. Let the green roll my way for a change. Why should basketball and football players get it all? Don't they already get paid like a billion dollars a year?
The thought of money actually made me feel warm for just a moment, but it faded pretty quickly.
“This sucks, man. I'm going for a cappucino.” I said to the wind, just in case it can hear me. I hooked a cable line from my belt to the nearest chimneystack and lowered myself off the roof, rappelling down with what I like to think is practiced style. Naturally, I put my foot into a puddle of slush about a mile deep. It soaked into my boots, making me squish with every step. I guess it was a good thing I couldn't feel my feet anyway. God, I hate snow. I need to move to Florida, or the Bahamas, or something. Somewhere they've never even heard of snow. Where you tell them about it and they look at you like you're a crackhead.
Club Java's open twenty-four seven so I headed that way, boots squishing out a symphony with every step. I can't even ride my board in this crap, I've got to walk like all the other mooks on the street. It stays strapped on my back, just another useless weight. Maybe I can rig it to fly sometime. That'd be cool, huh? Flying over everyone's head on a skateboard! Show me the bad guy who does something like that!
Yeah, right. Like I know how to do that. What am I going to do? Strap rockets to it? Yeah, I saw that cartoon, and it didn't work out too well for the coyote.
Then it happens. Not fifty feet away from me I saw some guy dealing smack in a doorway. I couldn't have picked a better time to come down! Finally I get a chance to show the world who I am. I worked my shoulders and snapped the joints in my neck for show, then headed right up to the moron.
“Yo, slick. Get that poison right the hell out of my city,” I told him, breath filling the air with a frosty cloud. I didn't stumble on the words or anything. Doing good so far.
“What the hell are you supposed to be?” the guy asked. He was almost doubled over laughing at me. I struck my pose for him. You know the one I mean, where I stand all legs spread, chest out, head thrown back and hands on hips. That's the one. Hey, I may be new to the whole hero thing, but I did practice. I grinned at him like I've got the world in the palm of my hand.
“I'm Deckrider. This is my city, punk.” I told him in my best tough guy voice.
That's when he shot me.
***
Marvin Earle hated third watch. It always wreaked havoc with his sleep cycles, and Franklin invariably assigned him to it for two days before doubling him back to a swing shift for three days. He would stumble in on the third day, unshaven and unshowered, with circles building up beneath his eyes. He knew he had that to look forward to tomorrow. Shaking his head to clear the fog of drowsiness, he continued his rounds. The heavy watch clock slung across his body was yet another albatross hung around his neck by Franklin in his zeal to improve performance.
Marvin approached key station seven and casually scanned the area. He usually tried to look his best here, as station seven was visible to the street through the massive Transparex doors of the company, but tonight he just did not feel like making the effort. Sighing at the futility of his life, he opened the little metal box, withdrew the key on its chain from inside, and slotted it into the six-pound digital record keeper. The light on its face changed from red to green, accompanied by a barely audible chirp, and he pulled the key free. It made no sense to him that he and his partners should be saddled with such an archaic device, as both the interior and exterior of Armscorp Omega was liberally covered with surveillance cameras that monitored everything. The clock, Marvin thought, was just another method of control so Franklin could feel like he had some measure of power over his employees.
The radio on his hip crackled and Antonio Shavelli's voice split the silence.
“S-5 to Base. Perimeter sweep complete. All points secure. Re-entry from sector four,” he said with military precision. Antonio was still new enough that the whole job was challenging to him. Marvin knew that, in time, the youthful enthusiasm would wane and he would look on it as just another eight to ten hours a day wasted. Grimacing at the arthritic pain in his knees, Marvin turned toward the east and shuffled off toward key station eight. The operator at the base radio acknowledged Antonio's transmission in a bored voice, computer keys clicking in the background as he spoke. Probably playing video games or sending messages to some far-off Intenet pen pal, thought Marvin. If he was smart, he was posting a resume online. Despite his personal apathy toward the men and women who operated the radios, he could not help but grin at that thought.
“S-5 to Base! S-5 to Base!” Antonio suddenly began screaming. The horror in his voice carried across the radios perfectly, and Marvin felt a chill of apprehension travel down his spine at the tone.
“Go ahead,” responded the operator. The tone had carried to him as well, and the sudden surge of adrenaline was evident in his voice.
There was a moment of painfully tense silence, then the microphone clicked open once more and they could hear Antonio screaming in agony. The noise of his service pistol discharging registered as a half-dozen flat ripping sounds in the transmission. In the interior of the soundproofed building, they were the only indicators of the trouble outside.
“It's coming!” Antonio yelled into the mic, overmodulating the call and distorting it for those who received it. “Oh, God, no! Don't --”
The transmission ended as abruptly as it began.
“All patrol units, respond to exterior sector four,” the radio operator spoke in a careful tone. Although the situation was desperate, he was cautious to avoid adding to the panic by losing his control. “Officer down, exterior sector four. Stationary units maintain your positions and prepare to engage intruders.”
Marvin ignored the other officers who were all trying to transmit responses at the same time, figuring that he would better aid Antonio by going to help him than by telling some radio operator he was complying with their directions. He ripped off the heavy watch clock and dropped it with a hollow clunking sound to the floor, drawing his heavy automatic pistol with a shaking hand. He felt bile rise in his throat as he did so and swallowed to control it. Without conscious thought, he checked the weapon to ensure a loaded chamber, switched it from single shot past three-round burst mode onto fully automatic, then took a deep shuddering breath and began the sprint toward station seven, shoes slapping madly at the tiled floor as he ran. The main doors would put him outside ahead of the others, and sector four was a mere hundred-foot run around the corner.
He thought back to when he had left the house for the shift tonight. Lisa was sleeping peacefully in their bed, as she probably was at this very minute. Bobby and Jen tucked safely in their beds, smiling through the dreams of happy children. He realized with a start as he forced open the main doors and the cold wind slapped at his face that he had not kissed any of them goodbye or told them how much he loved them before he left. That thought weighed heavily on his mind as his uniform shoes skidded on the snow-slicked sidewalk. He began to chant a prayer as he ran for the corner of the building, begging for protection and aid in what would obviously be a dangerous situation. Antonio had gone down, and the youth was in better shape than Marvin. All Marvin had to rely on were the twelve years in the Army and his own will to survive. With luck and the grace of God, they would be enough.
He rounded the corner and saw the crimson monster before him, and Marvin Earle knew that they would not be enough after all.
***
I looked down at the gun in his hand and then at the neat little tear in my costume. I could feel the hole in my gut as well, but I wasn't real worried about that. I heal real well. The shock of the situation wore off about the time he pumped another slug into me.
“Dude!” I shouted. I reached out and grabbed the gun by the barrel, jerking it out of his hand and tossing it into the street. “You shot me! That was most not cool! I paid for this outfit, you know!”
I hammered a right cross to his jaw, remembering at the last second to go easy. His head snapped back and he went out like a light. I looked down again and saw the blood coming out from both holes. Great. Now not only do I have to sew it up but I gotta clean it too. The bullets hurt, but they weren't that bad. I could already feel them coming back out as I healed. It made me feel like I had stomach cramps. You know like when you eat too fast or something? Then they were out and I felt a lot better.
The dealer wasn't going anywhere for a while, so I turned to look for the gun, knowing that it could be bad for the image if I let it get into the wrong hands. I spotted it at the exact moment when some fourteen-year old kid in gang colors snagged it out of the snow and took off running. Well, those were the wrong hands, all right. My jaw dropped open in amazement as I looked at the little sprinter. Man, he looked like he was some kind of track star. If it wasn't for the snow, I could have run him down on my board. I'd have to settle for chasing him on foot.
I started running, cold feet pounding the ground and splashing yet more slushy icewater on my legs. I can't get a break. Never could. In fact, that's what started me thinking I might be a booster in the first place. I figured I had some kind of bad luck power. Turns out I'm just strong and heal fast. Well, that, and I don't hurt the way other people do. I imagine there's some scientific name for it like 'increased pain threshold' or something. Too bad, too. I had already decided I was going to call myself Hex. Kind of a goofy name when you don't have the luck thing, though. It seems like every other booster's strong, and they pick up the cool names there. I had tried to think of a good one for the healing power, but gave up after a while. I settled on Deckrider, because that's what I am anyway.
I saw the little punk duck into an alley off of thirteenth and I put on an extra burst of speed. I was already going faster than I wanted to in the snow, but I had to get that gun back before the dealer woke up and split. I thought of another rule for my book when I tried to take the same turn: Wear shoes with good traction. My feet came out from under me and I went down hard on my ass, sliding across the sidewalk and getting a free icewater enema out of the deal.
I stood up and wiped slush off my suit, then walked carefully back to the alleyway. I swear, next time I wear thermal underwear, jeans, and a heavy coat. This cold really bites. As I rounded the corner, the sound of gunshots erupted from some distance ahead of me. For those of you keeping notes, that just isn't good.
Breaking into a slightly more cautious run, I worked my way down the alley past dumpsters and the ice-crusted metal of fire escapes that hung overhead. I tried to check behind the obstacles as I passed them but that isn't easy when you're trying to make time. Finally I just decided to pour on the steam and get out of the alley as quickly as I could. I burst out on Vine Street and looked down toward the Armscorp Omega building.
All right, so we're up on the rules so far, right? Spandex sucks in the cold, don't blow on your hands, and wear shoes with traction. Here's another one, boys and girls: Giant robots are scary as hell.
***
Standing before Marvin was a nightmare vision of metallic Hell. Towering to a height of nine feet, the robot was vaguely humanoid in appearance, although the feet had wide splayed toes of metal that clanked noisily when it moved. Rather than the soft smooth curves of a human, it was an amalgamation of angles. Everything was sharp, raised, or somehow angular. Mounted on its shoulders were squared metal boxes open at the front to display the garishly painted nose cones of four short-range missiles in each box.
The robot looked down at the security guard with eyes that were glowing emerald lights. He noted that its face looked almost deific -- a carved metal mask suggesting power beyond his comprehension. The mouth opened in what could have been interpreted as a smile if the orifice were capable of flexing. Streetlights flashed off six-inch fangs that sparkled silver against the overall fire engine red paint scheme. It raised its left arm, displaying the twin muzzles of some enormous gun attached to the back of the hand.
Marvin raised his pistol defensively, but inside he heard his mother's voice telling him how ineffective the ten-millimeter would be against such a terrifying opponent. He was already reaching for the magazine of armor-piercing rounds Armscorp Omega had supplied in the event of genebooster attacks as his finger started taking up the slack on the trigger. The weapon shook with recoil as it banged through half of a magazine without stopping, Marvin watching in horror as the rounds ricocheted into the night. From the robot, he was certain he heard a sound not unlike laughter.
From his right, Marvin saw something peculiar. A kid, dressed in what he recognized as the colors of the Rolling Thirteens street gang and with an expression of abject horror on his face, raised a pistol and began snapping off rounds as fast as he could work the trigger. Those rounds were no more effective than had been Marvin's, though, and the robot seemed almost happy to reach out and playfully smack at the teen. It struck like a cat batting at a mouse, but the gang member was devastated by the strike. He slumped to the ground in a pool of his own blood, eyes glazing instantly in the reflected light. Returning to the previous threat, the robot turned its gaze once more onto Marvin Earle as the guard switched magazines.
“Stand aside, human,” the robot said in a voice like the crack of doom. The authoritative tone was apparent even in the mechanically modulated voice. It reminded Marvin of the sound of an officer ordering the immediate halt of a fleeing perpetrator.
“What the hell?” Called a voice as two more guards ran up from the robot's right flank. Keio Akira and Sheila James, Marvin recognized. Sheila carried an autoshotgun in her hands, and was already working the bolt on the side to chamber a round.
“Thumpers!” Marvin shouted, repeating the word in an endless loud chant as he opened fire again. His bullets this time tore holes in the armor plating of the robot and he shifted his aim toward the head as he saw the efficacy of the fire. Holding the weapon steadily, he squeezed off a pair of short bursts as he heard the staccato booming of Sheila's shotgun.
Akira called into his radio as Sheila joined Marvin in attacking the robot. He told the others they were facing an armored robot and requested that all available officers respond. That would only mean two more to aid them, as the foot patrol was comprised of only six total officers. As he saw the massive right arm of the thing coming his way, Akira shouted one last thing before dropping the radio and firing wildly with his pistol.
“Bring thumpers!”He yelled as his pistol bucked in his hand. To Akira's right, Sheila was riding the recoil of the thundering twelve-gauge like a rodeo star. Foot-long tongues of flame leaped from the barrel every second as she rapidly cycled through the twelve rounds in the weapon's magazine.
The palm of the robot opened wide, spreading its eight-inch fingers into full extension. The center of the hand opened with a hiss as tiny metal plates rolled back like an iris opening. A horrific chemical stench came from the stubby barrel that slowly emerged from the hole thus exposed and Sheila blanched as she recognized the scent of napalm. Tensing her legs to dive for cover, she yelled a warning to the others.
“Flamethr --” she managed before the otherworldly roar of the weapon enveloped her and Akira in a sheet of roiling fire.
***
Stan Citral danced with glee, clapping his hands like an excited five-year-old as the images spread across his monitors with digital precision. The second security officer, some minimum-wage-earner in his late forties, bouncing slugs off the Dreadnought with no better results than those of his dead partner. A gangbanger trying to help and killed for his efforts. Two more officers, one with a shotgun. He laughed maniacally as the Dreadnought initiated defense protocols more suited for an advancing infantry division than a handful of men and women that Stan was certain had never even graduated high school.
The image washed out in a glare of white as the flamethrower ignited and hosed two of the guards. Stan's laughter continued unabated, echoing from the walls of the cavernous warehouse where he housed the Dreadnought. A bank of computers tracked its progress; fed it combat solutions. Stan slurped once again at the Jack Daniels bottle, placing it uncaringly on the Armscorp Omega termination notice on his table. That notice, and the bottle he clutched in his hand, were the only reminders of life in his cramped apartment. Seeing it, he spat onto the otherwise spotless floor.
“Wait 'til I get him inside,” he swore as the two guards burned.
***
I winced as I saw the kid go down. No love here for the gangs, but that was just harsh. The sec man on the other side of the big red machine opened up again, and I heard him shout something a second before someone started shooting something big. I broke into a dead run, forcing all the strength I could into my legs in an attempt to close the distance before the robot squished the guy.
I was about five steps away when the night got really bright. Bright and hot. Oooh, yes. Glorious heat. I wished inside that I could just stand and enjoy the sudden warmth, but there was no time. I lowered my shoulder and hit Big Red in the back of his left knee with all the speed and power I could muster. There was a loud crack, though whether it was my collarbone or the robot I couldn't be sure. Then he was on top of me, pinning me to the snow-covered ground. I felt like one of those guys in a mine when there was a cave-in. My board was pressed into my spine and I just knew it was wrecked. I couldn't get enough leverage to push Big Red off of me and for a second I panicked.
I did the only thing I could think of, which was to grab the section of lower leg in front of me and start punching it. The metal dented with my first strike, then it separated and tore as I kept on hitting it. A moment later and I was inside it with my hands, grabbing at cables and ripping them loose. Sparks flew everywhere, and I got hit with a jolt like a taser, but I wasn't going to quit until the damned thing got off of me. Somebody yelled something about geneboosters, but I was too busy to stop.
Then the bullets came.
***
Marvin clutched at his face as droplets of the burning napalm splashed across him. A single precious round, the last in his magazine, went into the sky just before he dropped the pistol in pain. He could hear the terrified death-shrieks of his former partners and knew that he had been luckier than them, even if their sacrifice bought him only a temporary respite from the doom he fully expected to embrace him any second.
Without warning, the robot began to topple backwards. As it did so, the night was split with a reverberating crack as the gun on the back of its right hand discharged. A piece of the wall above Marvin disintegrated into powder, leaving a hole as large as a hubcap in the concrete.
Scooping up a fistful of snow and slush, Marvin wiped it across his face to ease the pain and looked for his sidearm. He couldn't find it on the sidewalk or in the street, and that meant it was lost somewhere in the chaotic jumble of the now-supine robot where it lay atop the body of someone clad in green and blue Spandex. Forgetting the lost weapon, Marvin clawed for the radio.
“Genebooster!” He shouted as he keyed the mic, voice sounding tinny and distant in his ears. They were still ringing with the effects of the giant gun firing so close to him. His eyes watered from the heat of the flamethrower, and he realized with a start that his nose was gushing blood in response to the concussion from the gun.
“We're here! Stay down!” Yelled another voice. Marvin glanced up to see Alan Periera and Leroy Stone as they advanced from the shadows of the alley. Each carried an automatic rifle clutched in their heavy hands. The brilliant blue bands painted on the magazines meant that Akira's words had gotten out. Each of the men opened fire on the robot from a standing position. Empty shell casings spiralled from the weapons in glittering arcs of brass as the depleted uranium slugs chewed through the metal plates of their target with a distinctive thumping sound that Marvin was unable to hear, although he knew it by heart. The security staff called the rounds 'thumpers' for that reason.
With a grinding sound, the robot twisted its arm behind itself, pushing up from the ground as it swung the flamethrower around again to target this new threat. Steam hissed from the still-glowing hand and waves of heat shimmered up from it as it moved. It got to its knees and began to struggle with itself, flamethrower forgotten as it tried in vain to move its left leg. From that position, the genebooster in the green and blue rose with a triumphant smile on the lower half of his face. The upper half was covered in a matching green mask that exposed youthful eyes that twinkled with mischief and at the same time burned with anger.
The booster reached out and grappled with the flamethrower arm, setting his feet and wrenching the extremity out and down in what appeared to be a classic Aikido joint lock. A second later, he raised his right arm high and brought it crashing down on the robot's elbow joint. The screech of tearing metal overpowered even the fire from the two rifles and the booster tugged mightily on the arm. Muscles bunched and shifted beneath the shredded Spandex as he threw himself into the task. Suddenly, the lower half of the arm simply tore free in his grasp. His eyes went wide with shock as he realized what he had done. Alan and Leroy let off the triggers of their rifles as they witnessed this feat of strength. For the briefest of seconds, silence reigned.
***
“Impossible!” Raged Stan, watching through camera eyes as the genebooster ripped the arm from his precious Dreadnought. Damage reports began to filter in through the computers at his side and he scratched his head in desperation as he tried to think of a new course of action. First the leg torn apart, then the armor-piercing bullets, and now the arm ripped away. Something would have to change soon, or he would be forced to recall the Dreadnought. The bottle of whiskey, already emptied to less than half its original depth, beckoned silently to him from the table.
The camera image began to rock as the booster struck repeatedly at the head of the Dreadnought and Stan grinned maliciously, hand working the joysticks that controlled the manual aim for the rockets.
***
Now I was out in the street with a whole head full of questions. What the hell is this thing, anyway? What am I supposed to do with this arm? Oh, well, at least the arm was warm. And it made a handy club.
With that thought in mind, I started waling away on the robot with its own arm. I pounded at the side of its head, giving it my best John Henry-style hammer strikes. Metal gave on both sides, and the thing turned away from the sec men to look at me. Hey, it has a face! That is so cool! I was expecting something like that Gort guy in Day the Earth Stood Still.
He twisted in place, still on his knees, and I grinned at him as I brought the arm up for a full power shot into its face. I was trying to think of something cool to say when I heard the whining sound and realized the rocket launchers were swiveling to point at me. I turned my arms in mid swing, letting him have a Mark McGwire shot that knocks the right one clean off. No time for a second hit, so I ducked under the other one as it cooks off. The exhaust from the rocket as it fires sprayed across the top and back of my head and for the first time since my Emergence I remember what real pain is.
I could hear the Spandex sizzling as it melted, or maybe that was my hair burning, I don't know. Either way, I figured, I'm not letting it happen again. I dropped the severed arm, reached up to Big Red's shoulder and grabbed the second launcher box. Wrapping my hands around it, I squeezed the front shut like an old beer can. Stretching back, I powered a kick into the metal face, hearing as well as distantly feeling two of my toes breaking. They'll heal.
Another kick. Then another. I grabbed the remaining arm and twisted it behind Big Red in a hammerlock, throwing my body weight behind it as I torqued it up high. Classic submission hold. Then I remembered I haven't read the big book yet. You know, the one that doesn't exist?
I slammed the arm forward, trying to distance it from my face as I realized the double-barreled thing on the back of the hand was pointing at me.
***
Marvin stood in stunned silence as he watched the genebooster in the mangled costume pounding on the robot with its own arm. Leroy and Alan had burst into laughter at the sight and Marvin had to admit it was rather humorous. His head was still spinning with concussive force and adrenaline, but at least he would get to enjoy the show. The sound of approaching sirens drifted in on the night wind, and his heart leapt as he realized the police would be arriving soon.
Suddenly a rocket spat from the robot's shoulder, showering the booster with flaming exhaust. He screamed in surprise and agony as the rocket blazed a path down the street. It exploded as it came into contact with a mailbox, the concussion shattering windows for a half-block radius and raining shrapnel to the ground for a full ten seconds. Bits and pieces of the mail that had once occupied the box fluttered through the sky like oversized snowflakes.
By the time Marvin's attention returned to the fight after watching the progress of the missile, the booster was behind the robot, wrenching its arm behind it. The night was split asunder by a second blast from the twin cannon attached to the robot's hand and the booster was thrown up and back in a twisting arc, landing with a crash in the middle of Vine Street. His body slid through the snow, leaving a wide cleared path behind him. He did not get up.
The shot had other effects, though, ripping open the back of the robot's head and sending pieces of circuitry and wiring through the air. An odd, Klaxon-like sound began to come from within the thing and it stumbled as though uncertain of its position. Smoke began to billow from the crimson machine, and it raised itself unsteadily to its feet. Unable to put its full weight on the damaged left leg, it began a curious limp, backing away from the security officers with their raised automatic weapons. Without warning, two jets of orange and white fire erupted from the back of the robot and it lifted into the air, pumping out two more rounds from the gauntlet-gun to cover its escape. The trio of officers had thrown themselves to the side as the engines roared to life, and were well clear of the random shots of the weapon.
The robot flew to the east, gaining speed and altitude with every second until it was out of their field of view. The sirens were closer now, and a part of Marvin felt hurt that they had not arrived in time to help. Shaking with fear and the sudden realization that they were going to live, the officers ran to check on the genebooster that had helped save their lives.
***
“I'm not through with you people yet,” vowed Stan as he hit the recall switch on the console to activate the return flight of the Dreadnought. The armor-piercing rounds had been a surprise. In all the years he had worked for Armscorp Omega, he had never been privy to the equipment issued to their security staff. He would have to improve the armor plating.
“Possibly something ablative,” he mused as he stepped away from the bank of computers. He grabbed almost unconsciously at the bottle of bourbon as he walked away to stare at the racks and racks of equipment in the warehouse. His eyes lit up with a demonic gleam as he turned to face the prototype plasma cannon in its cradle. With another swallow from the bottle, he imagined the results of the devastating weapon when he mounted it in the place of the flamethrower.
The genebooster that had shown up would be remembered as well, he swore. Still images from the digital camera eyes of the Dreadnought would be downloaded and processed for identification purposes, and when the new, improved Dreadnought hit the streets, Stan knew just who he would be looking for.
***
Oh, holy shit it hurts it hurts it hurts, I thought, the words becoming a mantra in my mind.
My left arm didn't work when I tried to get up. One look confirmed what I was afraid of. It was hanging by a couple of strips of meat. The shoulder joint was shattered and I could see exposed bone. There was blood everywhere and my head was spinning. I couldn't hear a damned thing. My left eye was gummed shut, probably with more blood, and it was already congealing thanks to my healing powers. I suddenly realized I was trying to raise the arm to clean off my eye, but it wasn't moving at all. For a second, the sensation of the arm failing to respond was almost comical, but then the pain came slamming back in a great wave.
From back at the Armscorp Omega building, and coming at me at a trot, were two sec men with machineguns and another with a pistol. Great. Fans.
“Sorry, folks, I really can't sign any autographs right now,” I slurred, feeling a tooth slide out and fall from my mouth as I spoke. One of them asked a question that I couldn't hear and I just stood there looking all scary with blood and torn limbs everywhere. Not exactly the heroic image I wanted in life, you know? Figuring they want to know who I am, I tried to strike the pose. All I succeeded in doing is falling on my face.
“I'm Deckride,.” I muttered into the pavement before it all goes black again.
***
Marvin Earle sat in an uncomfortable chair beside the hospital bed, his face a mask of bandages and burn cream to repair the napalm damage. He was reading a well-worn copy of Moby Dick for perhaps the hundredth time in his life. Somehow, the images from the story were oddly comforting to him after the events at Armscorp Omega. After what he had seen, losing himself in a fantasy was therapeutic.
The funeral for Sheila was tomorrow, Akira's family having taken his burned body for some kind of private Shinto ceremony. Marvin was ready for the funeral. Beside his chair was a notebook on which he had scribbled notes for the speech he was to deliver. He had thanked her and Akira for their sacrifice, though he knew it would be of little comfort to their families to know how heroically the pair had died.
“Whatcha reading?” Croaked a voice made hoarse by thirst. Marvin nearly dropped the book when he saw the genebooster sitting up in his bed and looking at him with an amused expression.
“Um, it's, uhh...” he stammered, unable to form a coherent sentence. The doctors had said that it was likely the youth would be comatose for a week or more, and might never use his arm again, but here he sat less than two days later, scratching at his nose with his left hand as though the arm had never been injured at all. Marvin could not help but stare at the shoulder, wondering just how this miracle could have happened.
“It's okay, pal. I heal fast,” said the booster, seeing the confused look on the man's face. Snapping the joints in his neck, he looked around the room for the first time. Recognition of his surroundings sank in and he grimaced.
“You're in the hospital,” Marvin managed, confirming Deckrider's thoughts. “The ambulance brought you here after...”
“Yeah. After.” Muttered the youth with a grunt of acknowledgement. “The robot?”
“Flew away. I think you hurt it.”
“Good. 'Cause I know it hurt me.”
Marvin fumbled with the book for a moment before setting it aside on the counter of the sink. “Can I get you anything?” he asked.
“Water.”
After finishing two full glasses of the cold liquid, the booster looked at Marvin again. “You were the shooter, right? The one with the pistol?”
“Yes, sir.” Marvin replied automatically. His voice carried pride and loss at the same time.
“Thanks for what you did. You and your pals. Especially the dudes with the machineguns. I'm Deckrider, by the way.”
“Yes, sir. I know. You told us before you passed out. My name's Marvin Earle.”
The genebooster grinned at Marvin for a minute, eyes flickering as he thought about something. Then extending his hand to the security officer, he asked, “So Marvin, you like reading books? I've got a great idea for one. I think you'll like it.”
“Yeah?” Marvin replied noncommittally as he shook the hand. Deckrider grinned again and spread his arms wide as if envisioning an enormous banner. His voice was filled with an element of wonder as he spoke.
“I think I'll call it 'Spandex is Cold',” he said.
END